The Aftermath of Secrets
by NiDubhchair
Summary: Just a short little tag to 9x01 "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here." We couldn't watch all that yummy hurt!Dean without a little bit of awesome!Sam to comfort us, right? Rated M for language.


They make it to Ohio before Dean has to pull over. He fishtails slightly on the gravel shoulder and Sam's head knocks against the window he's been sleeping against since they crossed into Pennsylvania.

"Sorry, Sam. Go back to sleep. I just need to close my eyes for a sec – I'm starting to see double."

"I can drive, Dean."

"Sammy, you just woke up from the mother of all cat-naps. I'll take a raincheck until you can, you know, say the alphabet backwards . . ." He puts his head back on the seat and angles his feet up on the dash, but doesn't close his eyes - his bloodshot gaze holds onto his brother's face like he's afraid it will disappear.

Sam huffs out a breath and turns in his seat. Dean can see the bitchy smirk bright as day in the lights of a passing big-rig. "Z, Y, X, W,V . . ."

"Sam, seriously, shut-up. 10 minutes and then we're back on the road to Lebanon – it's only a matter of time before Kevin finds where I hid the Johnny Walker Blue, and I really don't want to have to gut the kid."

"Dean, you told me you've been driving for what, over 24 hours? 10 minutes of shut-eye is not gonna cut it. Let me at least get us to a motel. We both could use some real rest, dude."

"Yes, and my baby is second only to my own bed."

"What's the _actual_ reason for the hurry, man? We've got 10 more hours before we hit Kansas, you've gotta let me drive sometime."

"Oh, I don't know – maybe the part where the whole fucking fallen heavenly host is after Cas' ass and I promised him we'd meet him there?"

"Wait – what?"

"Could we just . . . hold the exposition for a little while? Go back to sleep. When you wake up . . . we'll be in Kansas, Toto . . ." Dean is out before the words completely leave of his mouth.

Sam keeps a restless watch for 20 minutes – there's no way they're both sleeping while they're exposed on the open road with, evidently, angry angels roaming around – then he reaches over and carefully lowers his brother to a horizontal position. But the ease with which he's able to move Dean without waking him sends a stab of worry into his gut. He leans close, long-practiced in the art of listening to his brother's breathing to detect hidden injury. The sound is shorter and shallower than he likes – is that blood he smells?

Sam flicks on the overhead lamp and hisses as he takes in the damage to the left side of his brother's face, the side so easily hidden from him while Dean was driving. His cheek is one large bruise from eyebrow to ear, purple and black and angry and not done swelling by the looks of it. There's a large cut just under his hairline, wide-open and still oozing. Another one on his eyebrow. His lip is adorned with a large arrow-shaped scab, with a bruise for a purple halo. Dean has carefully washed all evidence of blood from his face, but Sam can see that the inside of his collar is soaked with the stuff.

"God. Dean . . . Goddamit, why are you so impossible?"

Sam jumps out of the car and slides across the hood to the other side. It's too easy to push his comatose brother into the passenger seat. Dean's breathing is too quiet as he tucks the blanket from the back-seat over his chest and under his chin. But the Impala is cooperative enough as Sam yanks it into gear, pulls it back onto the highway and tears toward the nearest town.

* * *

Dean wakes up suddenly, aware that the temperature, the feel, the air, the _smell_ has changed since he fell asleep and his knife is not within reach and _godfuckingdammit_ where the hell is –

"Relax, Dean."

Dean feels his brother's hand on his chest before his eyes actually register his presence. He worries about this for a few seconds until he realizes that his left eye is swollen shut and he can't actually see that side of the room at all. The other eye sweeps the nondescript hotel room, looking for a clock. The bed, he notices, is strewn with various first-aid wrappers and paraphernalia.

"It's later than you'd like it to be, that's all you need to know."

"What the fuck are we doing here, Sam? I thought I told you –"

"We're here because of what you _didn't_ tell me."

For a moment Dean panics – what had Sam found out? Had he managed to detect the healing presence taking up begrudged-residence? Had Ezekiel been somehow forced to reveal himself?

"That must have been some group of Japanese tourists, Dean."

"What?"

"Was it 'cause you told them 'no flash photography allowed,' or did Godzilla show up and you got trampled in the aftermath?"

"Oh." Dean groans and tries to sit all the way up, but the imprint of an angelic boot on his ribs makes the movement less cavalier than he'd like. Before he knows it, Sam's arms are around his shoulders, helping him make the last crucial inches to a sitting position. His brother puts his hands on Dean's knees and sits back on his heels, staring accusingly.

"Seriously, did you just think you could hide it from me?"

"I wasn't hiding it. It just wasn't that important."

"Important? Dean, you've been passed out for the last 12 hours. You're exhausted, probably concussed, one of your ribs is broken, I had to put 4 stitches in your head, and you can't see out of one eye. Now, was it Godzilla? Demons? Angels? Vampires? Marauding zombies? Who are we running from? I can't keep track anymore."

Dean sighs. His head feels like it's trying to escape out of his ears, and his ribs don't feel much better. His instinct is to devote as much energy as possible to hiding it, but it's useless now. His brother, he knows, has probably kept himself up most of the night, checking him over from toe to top. _Godammit, Sammy… couldn't you just let yourself rest for once?_

"We ran into some angels while you were out, Sam. They weren't too happy when I wouldn't give them any information on Cas."

"So you just let them beat on you? Cas is an _angel,_ Dean, he can handle himself."

"Not anymore he can't."

"What?"

"Something went wrong on his end. Obviously. Somehow in all this angels-falling-'cause-Metatron's-a-dick business, he got his Grace torn out. He's just as human as we are now, Sam. So, no, I wasn't gonna give Clarence & Co. any clues as long as I had a couple ribs left."

"Well . . ." Sam runs his hands through his hair and rises to his feet. "Can we have a new rule from now on?" He grabs a couple Vicodin and a bottle of water from his duffel and tosses them to his brother.

"A rule?" Dean dry-swallows a pill and coughs painfully, struggling with the cap on the water-bottle, before Sam strides over and opens it for him. He hands the bottle back to Dean and watches, arms-crossed, until he's drunk at least half of it.

"New rule: the next time one of us is ready to lose consciousness, we're not allowed to hide it. You could've driven off the road, man, how much worse would that have been than just telling me you've got a headache 'cause you got your fucking face beat in? Secrets, Dean – when have they _ever_ worked for us?"

"How would you know, Sam," Dean flashes a smile he hopes is convincing past all the bruises. "The point of a secret that works is that you never find out about it."

"Dean –" but he doesn't need to finish. Sam's face says the rest.

"Alright, fine! Honesty is the best policy, blah-blah-blah . . . Can we get going now? My memory foam misses me!"

"Yes. I'm driving."

"Baby might have something to say about that."

Sam rolls his eyes and starts tidying the scattered first-aid paraphernalia into his duffel and trashcan, while Dean gingerly stands and walks to the end of the bed, trying to figure out what's happened to his socks and shoes. Sam picks them up from where he'd dropped them the night before and hands them over. The contrast of his present smile with his pale and fading visage just 24 hours before digs painful nails into Dean's stomach.

"_Secrets, Dean – when have they ever worked for us?"_

_They're working now, Sammy. Your life depends on them. So I am going to make this work as long as I possibly can._

Dean shrugs his jacket over aching shoulders and follows his duffel-laden brother out into the sunlight.


End file.
